


sleepless.

by orphan_account



Category: Andrew Hozier-Byrne (Musician)
Genre: Fluff, Other, in which everyone is terrible at sexting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:54:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23193526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: You can't sleep and neither can Andrew, who just so happens to be far away.
Relationships: Andrew Hozier-Byrne/Original Character(s)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 42





	sleepless.

**Author's Note:**

> How’re we all doin’? Holding up? My brain melted the other day, so this one took longer than I’d intended. I think it’s also a bit gloomier than I might’ve liked, but here we are.
> 
> Now, I don’t want to make any promises — because this has back-fired quite spectacularly on me before — but if you’re in need of a little pick-me up, drop a request in the comments and I’ll see if I can make anything out of it.

—

It was more of a testing-the-waters situation than anything else. 

You had been barely awake when you’d sent it — too early where you were and too late where he was. And sure, maybe you had been feeling more than a bit grumpy and touch-starved and lonesome. And yes, you did know how sweetly awkward (for you both, but mostly for him) your past attempts at sexting had been. But desperate times and all that. 

You’d fallen back to sleep sometime around four, the screen of your phone face down on the bedside table, not expecting a response from him until your usual mid-morning call just to say “Hi.” But now it was something like seven; the morning was breaking, warm hazy light cascading in the open window just beyond his empty side of the bed, and your phone was buzzing where you’d left it on top of the book he’d posted you last week. (“Because I thought you might like it…”)

“Andrew?” You might have felt awake, but your voice yet was not. 

“Did I wake you?” He sounded tired, but not sleepy. There was an edge to his voice; strained, and a little bit raspy. 

“No, no. I’m just lying here. Awake.”

“Yeah,” He sighed, and you both knew what it meant. But neither of you needed to say it aloud. 

There was a ruffling noise filtering down the line, like he was shuffling about. “Hotel tonight?” It was a strange thing to have memorised about someone — the way they moved when they were restless; the little crease they got in their brow and the quirk of a frown you knew would be shadowing their lips. 

“Yep, hotel tonight.” He was still again, and all that you could hear was his shallow breath. “So, I got your message.”

You chuckled quietly, realising now what the odd tension was that you could hear in his voice. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah,” He sighed again, tailing off with a breathy chuckle. “I’ve been lying here, actually, trying to write you back. But everything sounds… not how I want. It’s not what I want — none of it.”

There never really was anything that was enough to say in moments like these. No words that could express how deeply he was missed and how significantly you felt his absence by your side — in life, and at home, beside you in the bed you usually shared. “That’s why I went for unbridled filth.”

He laughed, and you smiled. “I miss you. Fuck,” His breath caught and you could hear it as he carded his hand over the scruff on his face. “I miss you so much. In every way. Just, all of me. Every little piece of me…”

“I know, Andy. I miss you, too.”

There was stillness — not silence. You could hear him breathing, moving, alive there on the other end of all of those waves and connections, cities and oceans. And he could hear you, just as vital and just as restless, alone, at home. 

“So, tell me more about this message, then.” Something lifted in his tone, suddenly and with some effort. It was lighter, flirtier.

You smiled and then burrowed your suddenly flushing face in the blankets to muffle the sound of your giggling. “Right of reply, baby. It’s your turn.” You managed after a beat, and a nervous chuckle of his floating down the line while he waited. 

“That’s not…” He stopped himself, gasping softly, before beginning again. “I just want to feel you — beside me, around me. Below me; above me. Everywhere.”

It was your turn to be quiet, now. The hotness in your face had radiated, and so you battered away the bed linen, shuffling your way to the top of the covers where you sprawled half-propped on the bounty of pillows you slept with when he wasn’t home, and lay almost bare to the room — what, with just one of his left-behind shirts to cover you, and nothing else. 

“It’s not just want,” You replied, finally. “Not just gratification. I miss how you make me feel. I can’t… It’s not the same, without you. It’s like I’m walking around half-satisfied all the time. Not just your touch, but, you know — you. You, everywhere. Here, with me.”

You counted his deep breaths as they skimmed over the phone, your own body ricocheting between desire and despair. “I know,” he said. “I’m—“

“Don’t.” You knew what he was about to say, and you didn’t want it. Not to hear it, not to have him speak it, not to put it out into the world. Your world; the little one you shared.

“I am, though.” He muttered over you, and you back over him — 

“No.”

“What are you doing, now?” He was at full-voice again, suddenly very awake. 

“Mostly, I’m failing at phone sex.” He chortled at you, and all it took was the cheering sound of it for some of the darkness that had seeped in to lift. “Why? Is that not what this is?”

“Come out here to see me? Can you? Just for a couple of days, or a week, or, just—“

You didn’t even need to think about it; there was nothing to consider. “Yeah, okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Of course, yes.” You sat up, eyes scanning the room for the laptop you’d discarded moodily before tumbling into bed last night. 

“Okay, hold on—” He made a noise, gruff and awkward, like he was reaching for something. “Got it, okay. For when do you want me to make the booking — don’t argue!” He got in before you even had a chance to open your mouth. “It my fault, all of this. If I’d just answered you like a normal person, we never would have ended up having this conversation.”

A stupefying burst of joy bubbled up in you as you collapsed, delighted, back onto the bed, face split into a smile that reached from your eyes to your mouth. “Good thing we’re so shitty at it, then.” You could hear the glee in his voice as he crooned a quick, “Yeah,” back at you. 

“And besides — you could make the argument that it was, in fact, a resounding success. Surely the best kind of sexting is that which leads to actual, live-and-in-person sex? No?”

He lost it at that, managing through giggles, “No, yes. You’re absolutely right. We’re great at this. More of it, I say.”

“Is that a promise?” You asked, a hint of your mood from earlier settling back over you.

“It is, indeed.” He was shuffling around again, but it wasn’t because of restlessness this time. “I Intend to ply you with coffee and keep you from sleep for as long as humanly possible. Steal you away from the decency of society for a while and make you mine.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that, Mister.”

—


End file.
